OKEMAH — Most music fans my age missed the boat onJackson Browne. We were just coming around when "Lawyers inLove" was being foisted on Top 40 radio (a silly song thatwas not surprisingly missing from Browne's 1997 greatesthits collection) and the tepid but memorable "Somebody'sBaby" was the coda to the quintessential teen-sex film "FastTimes at Ridgemont High."

These were not Browne's greatest artistic achievements.They were Jackson bollocks.

What we young'uns missed were the crucial years oflyrical songwriting eloquence long before that early-'80swash-out and the equally important years of politicalproselytizing that followed. As rock critic Dave Marsh hassaid, Browne's career is like Bob Dylan's in reverse:Browne was first an intensely personal songwriter and thenbecame interested in the politics and social causes of histimes.

This gave Browne the advantage of employing artful andromantic lyricism to his political songs; the loving detailof these individual pieces helps link his artistic visionto his political idealism. At a gritty event that simplyvibrates with Dylan's brave, wheezy influence, Browne'stenderness, humility and grace spearheaded the third annualWoody Guthrie Free Folk Festival with a refreshing andapropos concert Wednesday night in Okemah's historicCrystal Theater.

"Folk music is what made me want to start playing music,"Browne told the sold-out crowd during his show. "Woody, PeteSeeger, Leadbelly -- these are the people who lit a fireunder me."

Of course, what else would you say on stage at a WoodyGuthrie festival? But he proved his sincerity with athree-hour solo show (he even donated his time for this) ofhis "more folkish stuff," switching between acoustic guitarsand piano to perform nearly 30 of his own carefully drawnclassic songs from the last 30 years. He sang an oldRev. Gary Davis cocaine blues tune ("I learned this from aDave Van Ronk album," he said), Dylan's "Song to Woody" ("Ah, Ilove that song," he said as he finished) and then Guthrie'sown classic "Deportee."

Between these, he invoked the nervousness and purpose ofevery folk singer ever born: "Boy, singing these songs onthe edge of your bed is one thing. Singing them in front ofother people is, well . . . But, you know, I startedsinging them not because I was a good singer but because Iwrote them."

The songs Browne did write, he sang beautifully. Afterthe show, he was mildly distraught, convinced that hisvoice had been terrible that night. It was not. Thick withits own natural peat and the mid-summer Oklahoma humidity,his voice resonated through the hall with as muchreassuring purpose as it always has.

It's not a dynamic voice, and Browne's one weakness isthat he writes songs within his limited vocal range; heuses the same keys and modulations so that, after a while,the songs tend to sound the same. (The occasionalfinger-picking and slide guitar Wednesday night threw anice country-blues change-up, though.) However, Browne'smusic stands tall over the rest of his ilk -- the laid-backsouthern California sensitive singer-songwriter stuff ofthe '70s -- because he somehow managed to avoid the cynicismthat corrupted his peers.

While Linda Ronstadt tried to prove she was everywomanby singing in Spanish, and the Eagles reunited to singacidic songs of contempt and charge $300 a ticket, Brownequietly continued through the late '80s and '90s writingsongs with quizzical questions and wry social observations.He's no optimist, but -- in the spirit of Guthrie -- heoperates from a live-and-let-live perspective that bringsan audience to an awareness of personal or politicalfoibles without humiliating the ones at fault. It's a moregraceful, humanitarian approach to empowerment throughmusic.

As he illustrated Wednesday night, this approach workson both sides of his music. The confessional songs show itjust as readily as the socially conscious ones. "Fountain ofSorrow," he pointed out, is about an old girlfriend, and "itturns out the song is better than she deserved." Still, hesang its words at the piano with none of the bitterness wemight expect from the situation: "You could be laughing atme, you've got the right / But you go on smiling so clearand bright."

A politically fierce song, "Lives in the Balance," railsagainst the United States' "secret, covert wars" around theworld not by calling the president names but byilluminating the toll exacted by these unwise policies:"There are people under fire / There are children at thecannons." It's the same process of focusing on the "right"details that Woody employed. "Deportee" is a song about thevictims, not the perpetrators. Empathy is a strongermotivator than anger.

Even though, as mentioned, early songs such as "ForEveryman" and "Late for the Sky" were unflinchingly personal,the seeds of Browne's social conscience were evident fromhis first solo hit, "Doctor, My Eyes." Despite its catchy,pleasant Brill Building groove, the song is an earlyexpression of a social observer's initial squint intolife's harsh light (lyrics above).

Again, here's Browne swiveling the camera around to theperson struggling -- in this case, himself -- instead ofsetting sights on those causing the struggle. It's a cryfor help, but not in the sense of whining or welfare;Browne instead seeks validation of his own feelings ofsadness and frustration about the world's situation. Inthis song, he hasn't learned yet how universal that feelingis -- a lesson Guthrie himself learned at about the samepoint in his own songwriting career.

His performance of "Doctor, My Eyes" was part of a medleythat began with that song and ended with another earlystandard, "These Days." As he see-sawed the groove on thepiano, Browne began to brighten noticeably. Throughout thebulk of his show, he had been fairly sober, concentratingon songs he hasn't played regularly in concert and closinghis eyes in serious songwriter mode. Perhaps it was thesong's upbeat momentum or the relief of a relativelystage-shy performer realizing that the concert was nearingits end, but Browne started smiling. His eyes stared at adistant point, then he would suddenly focus on the crowdbefore him and smile.

By the time he launched into "The Pretender," his mosticonic hit song and the most frequently shouted request ofthe evening, Browne was revived -- and leading a revival. Heliked the feel of the line "I'll get up and do it again /Amen" so much that he did it twice with gospel fervor, thesame with "Get it up again" later in the song. He seemed sointo the flow of the tune that he didn't want to finish thesong, telescoping the ending with extended riffing and muchsatisfied nodding to himself.

How many times has he played this song? Thousands? Tensof thousands? And he's still this into it?

So when he came out for an encore and played "Take ItEasy," the Eagles' breakthrough hit he co-wrote with GlennFry, it was clear exactly how much taller Browne stood thanhis contemporaries. He so easily switches gears betweensinging about "the blood in the ink of the headlines" andstanding on that mythical corner in Winslow, Ariz. But whenyou hear him in concert, you realize that even "Take It Easy"encourages us to "find a place to make your stand."

This undercurrent underscored how much Browne belongedat the opening ceremony of this festival, honoring asongwriter who could also switch gears swiftly -- one minutedecrying the fascist menace, the next minute bouncing upand down making kiddie car noises. It was a strongbeginning to a worthwhile festival gathering more strengthand purpose every year.

This is its saving grace and sometimes its mostfrustrating trait. It is folk music, after all -- by and forfolks -- and each of its practitioners labors to keep theirown songs and themselves as close to The People aspossible. No fancy clothes. No fancy shows. Sometimes, itseems, not even a simple rehearsal.

This is fun and even noble when performing in a coffeehouse or hootenanny. When entertaining a throng ofthousands from a 50-foot stage rig in a spacious pastureeast of Okemah, however, folk music's struggle againstseparation from the masses becomes a tougher fight.Saturday's final concert at the Woody Guthrie Free FolkFestival here was such a brave battle -- full of glorioustriumphs and tragic defeats.

Leading the charge was folk's figurehead, Pete Seeger.Indispensable as a living archive of American folk, Seegercommanded the Pastures of Plenty main stage with achildlike charm, telling the tales behind the songs andleading the audience in sing-alongs with every one.Seeger is the epitome of folk music's anti-showmanship.He'd been in town for days without being mobbed by fans. Hehas no entourage. He strolls confidently but slowly wearingfaded jeans and an untucked knit shirt. He walked by fansand musicians alike in downtown Okemah, most of whom had noidea who the old man was until someone whispered, "Hey,that's Pete Seeger."

This is how he took the stage Saturday night -- jeans,untucked, cap askew -- picking at a tall banjo and leading usright away into a sing-along of "Midnight Special." Scruffylooking, scratchy-throated and rarely keeping the beat, thethousands clustered in the steamy Okemah Industrial Parkpasture swooned, sang and lit up the late night with anelectric storm of flashbulbs.

Over the next hour and a half, Pete got the crowdsinging not only because he prompted us with each linebefore he sang it but because the utter joy radiating fromhis ruddy-cheeked smile was impossible to disallow. He ledus through "Turn! Turn! Turn!" with such exuberance you'dthink he had composed the tune in a Biblical revelationbackstage that evening, not nearly 50 years ago. He sangseveral of Guthrie's children's songs, such as "Why Oh Why,"and led the crowd of all ages through the cheery tune ofwonderment. We sang along because he wasn't talking down tous as if we were children; rather, he crackled with theobvious thrill of sharing the song and the joy its hasbrought him with one more huge crowd of people.

All of this was off the cuff, and while Seeger's undyingpassion for American folk song charged him for thesituation, his compatriots on stage didn't fight the goodfight with the same conviction. On stage with Seeger andhis grandson, Tao Rodriguez, were the Guthrie clan: Arlo,his daughter Sara Lee, his son Abe and Sara Lee's husbandJohnny Irion. As the pendulum swung back and forth betweenSeeger and the Guthries, it was clear the latter sufferedmost from the spontaneous nature of an unrehearsed masshootenanny.

The Guthries rumbled through a rousing rendition ofWoody's "Sinking of the Reuben James," supported by Seeger.But when the Guthries' turn came around again, there wereoften lengthy deserts of no music. Arlo had a tough timekeeping his guitar in tune, and he told mildly amusingstories while cranking his strings -- the same stories hetold at the first and second Guthrie festival here.Sometimes he would sit helplessly and wonder aloud whatsongs they could play that everyone knew. These were alwaysthe moments when a family or two would decide to pack upthe chairs and blankets and call it a night.

Rodriguez saved the show a time or two by belting outsome Cuban songs, including an enlivening duet with hisgrandfather on "Guantanamera," a hit for the Sandpipers in1966. The show wrapped up with an all-star jangle through"Will the Circle Be Unbroken," featuring a stage full of mostof the evening's performers.

Preceding the Seeger-Guthrie set Saturday night wasanother charter performer at the festival, the Joel RafaelBand. A quiet treasure, Rafael brought down nightfall withhis patient, comforting roots music. The band consists ofcongas, acoustic guitars and viola -- a wellspring of woodcreating wholly organic and soothing sounds. In addition tobeing the only performer in three days to point out thebloated, bright full moon shining over the festivalgrounds, Rafael evoked Guthrie with a most weathered andrighteous approach. He first sang "Way Down Yonder in theMinor Key," one of the Guthrie lyrics Billy Bragg and Wilcoput to music, then he tackled a rare Guthrie tune called"Don't Kill My Baby and My Son" about the planned lynching ofa black woman, her young son and her baby near Okemah earlyin the century. During his "Talkin' Oklahoma Hills," though,he summed up folk musicians' burgeoning perspective onGuthrie, saying, "Will Rogers is the most famous Oklahomanin the whole country, and Woody Guthrie is the most famousOklahoman in the whole wide world."

OKEMAH — The July afternoon heat was hard and brutal,even with an uninspired breeze. Triple-digit temperaturesradiated from Okemah's downtown pavement, and shoe solesfoolish enough to be tramping up and down Broadway athighnoon stuck to the blacktop. Townspeople hibernated inair-conditioned places of business, peering warily outcondensation-coated storefronts.

And yet . . . where was that accordion music comingfrom?

In the heart of downtown Okemah, in the little patch ofpark that now boasts a crude statue of Woody Guthrie, satRosemary Hatcher huffing on her squeezebox. A former musicteacher from California, now living in Payola, Hatcher wasvisiting Okemah for the third annual Woody Guthrie FreeFolk Festival, a festival that took over the small townwith live music events from Wednesday to Sunday. OnThursday, she had setup her stool and music stand in thetiny park and was pumping softlyunder the shade of herstraw cowboy hat and four huddling pinetrees.

"I just got this Woody Guthrie songbook," Hatcher said,clothes-pinning the pages to the music stand. "I'm playingthrough a lot of songs I haven't played before. You know,they were meant to be played on guitar. This book eventells you where to put your capo. But I think they soundnice with accordion, too. Do you know this one, `OklahomaHills'?

"I just like to travel and play my music," she said,echoing the sentiments of the majority of musicians playingat the festival, most of whom donate their time for theprivilege of offering up their songs in Guthrie'shometown.

Feeling hot, hot, hot

Erica Wheeler started her set on the festival's Pasturesof Plenty main stage with a song called "Hot," she said "inhonor of all of you who are."

She'd been battling the 100-plus heat index all dayThursday, refusing her 2 p.m. sound check (as all of theday's acts did) because of the oppressive temperatures. Onstage that evening, the sun had just begun to ease off asthe Maryland songstress began strumming her pretty,strong-voiced songs.

"It gets to hot / I ain't complaining / No, I am not," shesang, and she meant it, despite her wardrobe: long sleevesand an ankle-length skirt, all black.

The following day, bluesy singer Peter Keane voiced hisown ideas about the heat.

"Today is Woody's birthday," he said, "and that's why theyhave the festival here. Makes you kind of wish he'd beenborn in March or April, doesn't it?"

Dying notions

The protest against Woody Guthrie in his hometown hasdwindled to a feeble poster in a storefront window. It's ablown-up copy of an anonymous newspaper column from a 1989edition of the Oklahoma Constitution, and it's posted inthe window of Okemah's American Legion building.

The column, titled "Woody Was No Hero," lambasted theOklahoma Gazette, a weekly newspaper in Oklahoma City, forhonoring Guthrie through its Oklahoma Music Awards. Theactual awards were called Woodys.

A woman in a nearby clothes shop, when asked about thesign, discouraged investigation of the matter.

"That's not how the majority of this town feels anymore,"she said.

A good sign

J.R. Payne knows how Okemah used to feel about Woody. Healso knows something about signs that pop up when thefestival comes around.

"This town for a long time was pretty hooky-hooky overall that propaganda," he said, making a see-sawing so-somotion with both hands, "though none of it amounts to a hillof beans."

Payne tends the Okfuskee County Historical Museum,downtownnext to the Crystal Theater where several festivalperformances take place. He's quick to point out a longsign that sits atop a case of Guthrie artifacts in themuseum. The sign reads, "This Land Is Your Land."

"I had that sign made several years ago, and one morningI noticed that it had disappeared," Payne said. "But then,when all this Woody Guthrie hullabaloo started just lastyear or so, well, suddenly that sign came back out."

Among three rooms full of regional memorabilia, themuseum shows off several Guthrie photographs, including twoclassphotos (you can quickly pick out Woody's aw-shuckssmirk without the aid of the notations) and one photographof a girlish, near-toddler Guthrie standing outside hisfamily's original Okemah home.

Payne, 82, remembers Guthrie from these school days. Hisfirst year at Okemah High School was Woody's last yearthere.

"He was living back in the trees there," Payne said,pointing toward the east where Woody had lived alone in hisold gang clubhouse behind his family's last Okemah home. "Hewas just a guy, you know. Funny. He was the joke editor forthe school paper. But he was just like anybody else."

Real roots music

In addition to the main-stage concerts each evening,this year's festival included live music all day long attwo Okemah mainstays: the Brick Street Cafe and Lou's RockyRoad Tavern. Several main-stage acts reappeared on thesestages -- Ellis Paul played for a while Saturday afternoon atLou's -- and even more new artists played here, including anew band with an incredible legacy.

The group was called Rig, an acronym for the members'last names -- Tao Rodriguez (Pete Seeger's grandson), SaraLee and Abe Guthrie (Arlo's kids), John Irion (Sara Lee'shusband) -- and they played an unadvertised show Saturdayafternoon to a packed house at the Brick Street Cafe.Playing mostly old folk songs from their respective familylineages, they opened with a rousing rendition of Guthrie's"Union Maid" and closed with an equally ferocious "Rock IslandLine," both belted out with real passion by a red-facedRodriguez.

Seeger and Arlo Guthrie were in attendance, beaming withpride.

After-hours amazement

Some of the most exciting performances at this year'sfestival were at the late-night All-Star Jams in thespacious basement of the Brick Street Cafe. Hosted by theRed Dirt Rangers, the shows carried on after each night'smain-stage concert and featured the Rangers as a house bandfor whichever performers happened to be in the cafe withguitars handy.

This is where fans could see real musicianship unfold.For instance, Michael Fracasso took the basement stageThursday night and unleashed a more raucous side ofhimself, shouting a series of chords to the band beforebeginning the song and letting the players improvise partsas each song plowed along.

George Barton, from Barton and Sweeney, led the band --which that night featured Don Conoscenti, the Neal Cassadyof folkmusic, on drums -- through a visceral blues song,singing, "You don't have to be black to feel blue / Anycolor will do." Scott Aycock, host of the "Folk Salad" show onKWGS 89.5-FM, led the band through a haunted, wailingrendition of Dylan's "One More Cup of Coffee." Friday night,Stillwater's Jason Bolan and the Stragglers took over thestage for three songs and had the entire basement full ofpeople on its feet dancing.

The Rangers held court a while each night there, too.Friday night they performed "Dwight Twilley's Garage Sale," asong singer-guitarist Brad Piccolo wrote about stopping ata garage sale run by Tulsa's own pop legend Twilley. "I wishI could afford that guitar," Piccolo sings, "I'd take it homeand write a hit song / Say adios to the bars."

The Oregon tale

This year's Guthrie festival included a film screeningamong all the music. "Roll On, Columbia: Woody Guthrie andthe Bonneville Power Administration" is a documentary aboutGuthrie's 30-day job in May 1941 writing songs about thedam projects along the Columbia River in Oregon andWashington. The video was released in February and wasproduced by Michael Majdic, an associate professor at theUniversity of Oregon.

The film neatly sums up this pivotal chapter inGuthrie's career, featuring interviews with Arlo Guthrie,Pete Seeger, Mary Guthrie Boyle (Woody's first wife), StudsTerkel, Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Nora Guthrie (Woody'ssister) and numerous BPA dam workers. It was during thisunusual assignment that Guthrie wrote some of his mostsparkling work, including "Pastures of Plenty," "HardTravelin' " and "The Biggest Thing a Man Has Ever Done."

The three screenings of the film this weekend in Okemahwere part of a larger program that included performances ofthe songs by another Oregon professor, Bill Murlin, andGuthrie impersonator Carl Allen.

Ellis, himself and us

Bill McCloud, McCloud is the president of the OrphanageSociety in Pryor, which puts on the festival with the WoodyGuthrie Coalition, introducd Boston singer Ellis Paul,saying, "People said we'd never get Ellis Paul this year,that he'd gotten too big for us. But that's not what Ellistold us."

Paul, who's performed at all three Guthrie festivalsthus far, told the large crowd Friday night that he plansto play the festival every year he's asked to.

Paul's song "The World Ain't Slowing Down" is featuredprominently in the latest hit film from the Farrellybrothers starring Jim Carrey, "Me, Myself and Irene." Theonly thing the new prominence has brough Paul is theability to retrieve stolen goods, as he said in a storyfrom the stage.

"I went to the premiere of the movie and the partyafterwards, and I decided not to take my cell phone inside.I figured, it's a Hollywood party, everyone's going to havethe things, I don't want to be one of those people," hesaid. "When I got out to my car that night, my phone hadbeen stolen."

Later that week, Paul was singing the National Anthem atthe baseball game between the Boston Red Sox and the NewYork Yankees.

"A friend of mine there said, `Hey, Ellis, I just talkedto the guy who stole your phone.' So I called the numberand said,`Hey, you've got my cell phone.' The guy said, `Iknow. You're famous.' He'd been talking to my old girlfriends and probably doing interviews. I think he's doingLetterman next week."

Paul played a thrilling, albeit brief, set with fellowsinger-songwriter Don Conoscenti and Joel Rafael Bandpercussionist Jeff Berkeley. He included his rousingrendition of Guthrie's "Hard Travelin'."

Shy rockers in flight

Ellis Paul has charted higher than the northeastOklahoma duo of Barton and Sweeney, but the Oklahomans'music has soared much higher -- physically.

Earlier this year, NASA astronauts took Barton andSweeney's latest CD, "On the Timeline," with them on a spaceshuttle mission. The space walkers heard Barton and Sweeneyin a bar one night, bought the disc, then called later toask if they could take it with them into orbit. One morningduring the mission, the astronauts were awakened with oneof the tracks.

That's a little consolation for Sweeney, who recallswhen Paul got the better of him at the 1994 Kerrville NewFolk Contest. Paul won first place; Sweeney got second.

"That's why his name's a little bigger on the festivalT-shirts there," Sweeney laughed.

Rumors are rabid about the band's club gig this weekend:just who is this Doug Wylie, the Mystery Band's newsinger?

Is it really Dwight Twilley, or just some Twilleywanna-be?

The Mystery Band certainly has a history with Twilley.Drummer Jerry Naifeh played drums and percussion on severalof Twilley's pivotal early records, including the 1975 hit"I'm on Fire." Naifeh and Mystery Band guitarist Bingo Sloanplayed on Twilley's latest album, "Tulsa." Longtime Twilleyguitarist, Bill Pitcock IV, was also once a member of theband.

The other current members are not enigmas to local musicfans: Barry Henderson, guitars and keyboards, from the"Mazeppa" show's Bo Velvet and the Desert Snakes; and RickBerryman, bass, who fans might remember from the Push.

Twilley himself has performed with the Mystery Band. In1990, the band lost two of its members — Chris Campbell andJim "Tank" Parmley — in an auto accident. Twilley and hislongtime songwriting partner Phil Seymour played with theband in the interim. In fact, it was the last time the twolocal icons performed together on stage before Seymour'sdeath from cancer in '93.

Now the Mystery Band is back in action, and this weekthey're adding the shadowy Wylie. The band claims he lookslike Twilley and sounds like Twilley but that he's reallyjust a hot new talent they discovered in Okfuskee.

The band's new single, "Come Together," has receivedairplay on KMOD this week. It's a sharp pop song, but thatvoice sounds an awful lot like Twilley.

Pete Seeger is the godhead of American folk music, butlike most folks, he was bowled over when he first saw WoodyGuthrie perform.

"It was a magic moment," Seeger said in a recent interviewwith the Tulsa World. "Woody had hitchhiked from New York toCalifornia for a midnight benefit concert to raise moneyfor the California agricultural workers, most of whom wereOkies. I was working in Washington (D.C.), and Alan Lomaxdrove me up for it ... I was on the program with one song.I got a smattering of polite applause; it's quiteembarrassing to think about now, really. Woody was the starof the evening.

"He strolled onto that stage with his hat on the back ofhis head, and he just started telling stories. He started,‘Oklahoma's a very rich state. We got oil. You want someoil, you go down into a hole and get you some. We got coal.You want coal, you go down into a hole and get you some.You want food, clothes or groceries, you just go into ahole and stay there.' And he did that all night, singingsongs and telling jokes.

People were just charmed by his laconic control of thesituation, and I was one of them."

As a close friend of Guthrie's for the next 30-plusyears, Seeger would collect countless tales of Woody'smusical magic — all the while becoming a folk legend on hisown terms.

Extraordinary common folk

Seeger's destiny ran parallel to Guthrie's throughoutthe most productive years of their youth. While Guthriefound his path to folk music in his travels among thecountry's migrant workers and poor, Seeger discovered hisway at home. His father, Charles Seeger, was one of thecountry's premier musicologists. Young Pete fell in lovewith folk music when he and his father attended a folkfestival in 1935 in North Carolina.

But Seeger wasn't sure at first where he fit into folkmusic. After dropping out of Harvard University, he spentmuch of his time helping Alan Lomax at the Library ofCongress' Archive of Folk Song. There he got to knowGuthrie, another regular at the archive. The two becamefast friends, and Seeger learned everything he could fromGuthrie about music, politics and social commitment.

After the two songwriters traveled to Oklahoma togetherin 1940 (see related story), Seeger went back to New YorkCity and formed the Almanac Singers, the precursor to hismore famous — and influential — folk group, the Weavers, inthe early '50s. With these groups, and on his own, Seegerbecame a repository of American folk music. He learned thesongs and the stories behind them, from centuries-old talesof struggle to new songs from an early '60s upstart namedBob Dylan.

Seeger is 81 now, and he doesn't perform as often as heused to. ("I'm 70 percent there from the shoulders down and30 percent from the shoulders up," he jokes about himself.)Still, he's decided to come to Oklahoma for the third WoodyGuthrie Free Folk Festival simply because he can't turndown the opportunity to honor his late friend one more time— especially on his home turf.

"I'm glad the people in Okemah are welcoming theirfriends and neighbors and fellow Oklahomans. It's actuallya very brave and noble thing to do this," Seeger said."Okemah, I don't think, hasn't always been so welcoming. Oneof the singers at this festival is Larry Long. He's one ofWoody's musical children. He never knew Woody but throughhis songs. He came and worked in the Okemah schools for ayear or so, teaching the kids all of Woody's songs. Therewas a local banker there who was quite upset about that. Hefelt Woody was best forgotten. He was quite outnumbered."

Seeger himself has had his moments of doubt about Woody.When Woody would shove songs into Seeger's hands — freshlyripped from Woody's typewriter — Seeger said he oftenthought they were too silly, simple or even dumb. Overtime, however, Seeger began to see the beauty of Woody'ssimplicity and innocence.

"Over the years, I just gradually realized what anabsolute genius Woody was," Seeger said. "He fought long andhard for his beliefs, and he created instantaneously. Herarely rewrote anything. He had the genius of simplicity.Any damn fool can get complicated. I confess that when Ifirst heard ‘This Land Is Your Land,' I thought it was alittle simple. That shows how wrong people can be. Thatsong hit the spot with millions."

Seeger's own songs have hit the spot with millions.Seeger's songs, though, were most often commercial hits inthe hands of other performers — "If I Had a Hammer" for TriniLopez and Peter, Paul and Mary or "Turn! Turn! Turn!" for theByrds.

The same was true for Guthrie. Most of the young folkiespaying tribute these days discovered Woody by way of Dylan.Even Billy Bragg, who made the critically acclaimed "MermaidAvenue" albums of lost Guthrie lyrics with the band Wilco,heard Dylan first.

Guthrie's legacy, though, did not fade, even after hisdecline throughout the '60s and his death in '67. Theopening of the Woody Guthrie Archives in New York City in1996 spurred an appropriately grassroots revival of Woody'ssongs and spirit, part of which resulted in the Okemahfestival taking off from its inception three years ago.It's a legacy that's too important to ignore, Seeger said --it simply can't die. Long life, if not eternal life, is thevery essence of the folk tradition.

"Woody's legacy will not die, ever. I'm not just sayingthat. (In the '70s) Woody's second wife Marge went toWashington to seek money to help fight Huntington'sDisease. President Carter said to the assembled group thereone day, ‘I'm not sure if any of you realize that this manWoody Guthrie, centuries from now, will be better knownthan anyone in this room,'" Seeger said. "I think he's quiteright. Who remembers President Buchanan's name? Buteveryone knows Stephen Foster."

It was the spring of 1940, and Woody Guthrie wasbecoming a star — or as close to one as he'd ever lethimself become.

In May of that year, Woody stood alone in VictorRecords' New Jersey recording studio and sang out some ofhis best — and now best-known — songs: "Dust Bowl Refugee," "IAin't Got No Home," "Do Re Mi," "So Long, It's Been Good toKnow You" and many more. He was paid $300 for the session,more money than he'd ever thought a man could be paid forsinging "dusty ol' songs."

Immediately after the session, Woody wrote to hisyounger sister Mary Jo back in Oklahoma about his recentgood fortune in New York City. "I just bought a newPlymouth, and it really splits the breeze," he said. Then headded, "I'm coming to Oklahoma as soon as I get a check fromCBS."

Months later, he began that journey back home, and histraveling companion was fellow folksinger Pete Seeger. Itwould be a pivotal journey for Woody's politicalmotivations and a crystallizing moment in his personallife.

According to Joe Klein's Woody Guthrie: A Life, the twoyoung folkies headed south and rolled through theAppalachian Mountains "carrying on a running conversationabout music and politics."

Along the trip, they stopped briefly in Tennessee tovisit the Highlander Folk School, a training center forlabor organizers. The owners, Myles and Zilphia Horton,were focusing on the use of music as an organizing tool.From then on, Woody became preoccupied with writing unionsongs, and later in the trip he would pen his ultimatelabor anthem.

They traveled through Arkansas into Oklahoma, stoppingin Konawa to visit Woody's family. It was a tense reunion.The Guthries had been split up years before after Woody'smother Nora went to the mental hospital in Norman. Afterthat, Mary Jo was sent to a relative's in Pampa, Texas, andWoody's father, Charley, moved to Oklahoma City. Woody andhis older brother were left behind in Okemah to fend forthemselves. Woody's inherent restlessness got the better ofhim, and he left soon after high school.

Charley was in Konawa during this visit, but as Kleinwrote, there was "a real tension between them, and the visitlasted only a few hours."

They pressed on to Oklahoma City, where they spent anight with local Communist Party organizers Bob and InaWood. The Woods put Guthrie and Seeger to work, singing forthe poor people in the Hooverville shantytown on the banksof the Canadian River. It was during this stay that Woodywrote one of his most recognizable songs, "Union Maid."

Later in his life, Woody wrote that the song wasinspired by the story of a southern Tenant Farmers' Unionorganizer who was badly beaten, but in a recent interviewwith the Tulsa World Seeger recalled the more directinspiration for the song.

"We were in the (Woods') office, and Ina said, ‘Woody,all these union songs are about brothers this and brothersthat. How about writing songs about union women?' " Seegersaid. "Well, it was true. The (union) meeting that nightmight have been broken up had it not been for the women andchildren singing songs and keeping it peaceful."

"Union Maid" — with its chorus, "Oh you can't scare me, I'mstickin' to the union" — was written that night as a parodyof an older song called "Redwing." At first, Seeger thoughtWoody's song was silly, but he said its simplicity anddirectness soon won him over.

"His words now are much better than the ‘Redwing' words,"he said. "Who would think that ‘stickin' to the' would besuch a fun line to sing?"

The rest of the trip was personally difficult. Woody andPete continued to Pampa, where Woody had left behind hisfirst wife and children. That reunion also was tense.Seeger didn't stay long, opting to continue travelling westafter a few days. Woody left soon after that, leaving hiswife the $300. He headed back through Oklahoma City andpicked up Bob Wood, taking him back to New York City for ahuge Communist Party convention at Madison Square Garden.

When the convention was done, Woody gave Wood thePlymouth so he could get home. It was the official car ofthe Oklahoma Communist Party for several years after that.

One day, I’m going to meet Malcolm McLaren, and I’m going to buy him a pint. Maybe two.

I owe him that, at least. He sent the Sex Pistols through Tulsa back in ’78 and put T-town on the rock ‘n’ roll map. Well, not Tulsa, really, but certainly the Cain’s Ballroom.

It was a shameless publicity stunt ­ McLaren always was brilliant at causing a fuss ­ though by the time the Pistols pulled up in front of the Cain’s that winter, the gas had pretty much spewed out of the band’s eight-show tour. This was the Pistols’ first jaunt across America, and it would be their only one until a lame reunion tour in 1996. Instead of sending them to New York City and L.A. where they would be easily adored and scrutinized, McLaren scheduled shows throughout the Southern states ­ parading this snarling, angry Brit punk band before crowds who would understand them the least. The reactions were volatile, the carnage was massive and Johnny Rotten spent most of Jan. 11, 1978 hiding out in Larry Shaeffer’s office at the ballroom. The night before, in Dallas, he’d destroyed a $10,000 lens belonging to a documentary camera crew, and he was a walking target.

The Sex Pistols concert at the Cain’s was tepid. “They were hot for the first three numbers, then lost it,” said local music maven Peter Nicholls immediately after the show. Tulsa Tribune critic Ellis Widner wrote in his review, “It was too loud, too dull, and the songs were too much alike to make a serious, lasting impact.” But the quality of their performance never carried high expectations, nor was it even necessarily important in the long run. In the end, it was only relevant that the soon-legendary Pistols actually played here, and since the Cain’s is the only venue from that tour that’s still in operation, people know about it. The connection is made. The details are inconsequential. The Pistols played here ­ and that’s enough to open many musicians’ otherwise tired eyes and ears to a ‘burg in the middle of nowhere.

This tidbit of Cain’s rock ‘n’ roll history has been brought up by countless stars during interviews with the Tulsa World and Tulsa Tribune. Members of Garbage, Van Halen, the Ramones, the Blackhearts, the Plimsouls and Cake have asked something along the lines of, “Didn’t the Pistols play there?” David Byrne knew about the Sex Pistols show, as well as the fact that the Cain’s was originally, as he put it, “a cornerstone of western swing music.” David Grohl, formerly of Nirvana and now the leader of the Foo Fighters, placed his hand in the hole that Sid Vicious allegedly punched in a backstage wall, like a kid trying to measure up to his dad’s handprints. The most telling remark, though, came from Rancid guitarist-singer Lars Frederiksen: “You hear horror stories about people from Arkansas and Oklahoma, but the Sex Pistols played there, so it’s got to be OK.”

Swinging into action

This, of course, is but one extreme in the rollicking history of the Cain’s Ballroom. This is how people my age came to know the place. We’re the third or fourth generation which has rocked the Cain’s-Bah. But one thing’s for sure: the place has always rocked. Long before the word “rock” meant anything more than stone, the building that would become Cain’s Ballroom was erected in the heart of a burgeoning oil-boom city. It was 1924, and the place was built as a garage for one of the city’s founders, Tate Brady (as in Brady Street, the Brady District, the Brady Theater). By the latter half of the decade, though, the garage already had transformed into a nightspot called the Louvre Ballroom ­ a taxi hall where two-steppers could buy a dance for a dime. Madison W. “Daddy” Cain bought the building in 1930 and christened it Cain’s Dance Academy, where dance lessons were also 10 cents. The music folks were dancing to wasn’t yet called western swing and wouldn’t be for many years. Instead, people came to hear that “hot hillbilly music” or “hot string-band music.” Many of the tunes ­ and most of the bands ­ came from Texas. In Fort Worth during the late ’20s, an aggregate of nimble musicians was defining the music on a daily radio show sponsored by the makers of Light Crust Flour. They were called the Light Crust Doughboys, and one of the leaders was Bob Wills.

The band’s manager, W. Lee “Pappy” O’Daniel, was a slave-driver, insisting that the players work 40-hour weeks loading flour trucks in addition to their musical duties. Wills and the playboys didn’t like that arrangement, so they parted company and struck out on their own. That infuriated O’Daniel, and he dogged the former Doughboys every time they tried to set up shop elsewhere in Texas. Eventually, Wills, his players and a new manager, O.W. Mayo, traveled to Oklahoma, seeking a radio station out of reach of O’Daniel’s impeding influence.

The whole bunch of them drove to Tulsa with an appointment to meet the owners of 500-watt KTUL radio. But just for the heck of it, they decided to stop first at 25,000-watt KVOO radio. A skeptical station manager put them on the air at midnight, and Wills and his newly christened Texas Playboys played their first Tulsa broadcast. When letters of praise came from fans as far away as California, the station was no longer reluctant.

On Feb. 9, 1934, Wills and the Playboys played their first regular broadcast concert ­ direct from the Cain’s Ballroom. For the next nine years, nearly all of their daily (except Sunday) shows originated from the Cain’s stage. In addition, they played dances in the evenings, including regular ones at the ballroom on Thursdays and Saturdays.

“We played six nights a week and funerals on Sundays,” recalled the late guitarist-arranger Eldon Shamblin in a 1981 interview with the Tulsa World. “I can remember doing 72 one-nighters without getting a night off.”

KVOO soon doubled its power, and its clear-channel signal reached all over the continent. The Playboys quickly became a national phenomenon, and Bob Wills was recognized as a big-time bandleader on par with Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller or Benny Goodman. The music they were creating would soon be called western swing, and Wills’ name ­ as well as the ballroom’s ­ would be inextricably linked to it.

In 1943, Wills left for Hollywood where he continued to play and began appearing in movies. His brother, Johnnie Lee Wills, who had formed his own band in 1940, took over the daily broadcasts and dances without missing a beat. Johnnie Lee Wills kept up the shows all the way to 1958. In fact, many people who recall seeing and dancing to Bob Wills at the Cain’s during the ’40s and ’50s actually saw Johnnie Lee.

Regardless of country music’s current wholesome image, these dances weren’t always wholesome family gatherings. Those who decry alleged violence and craziness in today’s rock ‘n’ roll shows clearly never braved a night at a Cain’s western dance. In 1947, the city prosecutor declared the ballroom a menace, saying, “We have more trouble there than any place in town.” The Tulsa World reported that “some of the city’s roughest gang fights have been staged there.” In the late ’50s, the story remained the same, and the place became such a rowdy roadhouse that not many music promoters wanted to get involved with the place.

Throughout the ’60s, the Cain’s Ballroom struggled to stay open. Mayo had purchased the ballroom from the Brady estate the same year Bob Wills left for California. Alvin Perry and his wife, the Willses’ secretary, ran the place from the ’50s on. But once the Wills brothers were gone ­ and ’60s rock ‘n’ roll shoved the great bandleaders into the shadows ­ the Cain’s fell out of use and favor. For many years it sat virtually empty, until Marie Meyers bought it in 1972.

Meyers was 83 years old when she acquired the Cain’s. She wanted a dance hall more than a concert venue, and she tried to revive regular dances every Saturday night. Instead of the crowds of nearly 6,000 that jammed in and around the place during the Wills heyday, Meyers dances were lucky to bring in a hundred. Times had changed.

Over the next few years, there were several squabbles over ownership. Numerous local concert promoters leased it, made some improvements, then moved on. Late in 1976 ­ one year after Bob Wills died ­ a scrappy concert wizard named Larry Shaeffer bought the ballroom for $60,000 ­ the profits he had made from one Peter Frampton concert. During the next several months, he put another $40,000 into refurbishing the place, being careful not to alter or mar the original look and feel of the already historical venue. In early September 1977, he reopened the new Cain’s Ballroom with a concert by Elvin Bishop.

Hello Larry

If the Wills-Mayo era was a triumph for country music, the Shaeffer era was ­ and still is ­ a triumph for rock ‘n’ roll. Five months into his Cain’s reign, the Sex Pistols were on Main Street throwing snowballs outside Shaeffer’s new office. In the months and years that followed, Shaeffer booked a veritable who’s-who of new rock talent into the Cain’s. In most cases, the acts were not yet enormously famous, and some audiences you could count on two hands saw amazing concerts by bands who months later became huge international stars ­ the Police, Pat Benatar, Huey Lewis and the News, the Greg Khin Band, Talking Heads, INXS, Bow Wow Wow, the Blasters. Heck, Van Halen played the Cain’s for $500 before anyone knew who they were.

Ever unsure of himself, Shaeffer would, during the early ’80s, announce about once a year that he was selling the ballroom. Investors would swoop in for the buy, but the deal somehow always would fall through. Shaeffer just couldn’t let go of the place. A Bob Wills disciple himself, the Cain’s history had entrusted itself to his care. During one attempted 1982 sale, Shaeffer received what he later would call “a kick in the rear from ol’ Bob.” “The day I told my employees I was going to sell, one of the ceiling panels in my office slipped down, and out fell three fan letters addressed to Bob Wills.” The prices bandied about ­ one offer was reported at $290,000, another at $400,000 ­ were clear indication of the ballroom’s new stature and success as a rock venue.

Shaeffer didn’t just expand the Cain’s music capabilities, either. Throughout the ’80s, he tinkered with an array of hilarious and bizarre entertainment events in the ballroom. In 1980 he began a series of mud-wrestling events, as well as some boxing matches. At one point, there were pig races. Things evened out once rock took hold. By the 1990s, Shaeffer had partnered with another Tulsa promoter, David Souders, who helped to lure the cutting edge of modern rock the way Shaeffer had earlier attracted the newest of the New Wave. Since then, the Cain’s has borne the impact of alternative acts ranging from the industrial rock of Ministry to the lewd bombast of My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult.

All of this has been watched over by the silent portraits on every wall. Roy Rogers, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Hank Thompson, Ernest Tubb, Tex Williams, Leon Mcauliffe, Tex Ritter, Eddy Arnold, Kay Starr, Roy Acuff, and Bob Wills himself hang around the ballroom, grinning wistfully, languidly … eerily. Their presence provides a sometimes alarming and often amusing contrast to the modern rock acts of the ’90s. They kept grinning when someone threw a burning Bible on stage during Marilyn Manson’s concert at the Cain’s. They’ve kept straight faces while Mr. Lifto picked up a car battery chained to his nipples during the Jim Rose Circus Side Show at the Cain’s. They even tap their frames when beat-heavy acts like Crystal Method have rolled into the Cain’s, putting the spring-loaded dancefloor to the test.

It’s that heady mixture of old and new that makes the Cain’s such a vibrant venue. Everybody has their Cain’s story, whether it involves fiddles and a pickup or Marshall stacks and crowd-surfing. The Cain’s can handle anything. On my watch thus far, as the local pop music critic, I have learned volumes about music just because of the people this silly building attracts.

I’ve met country and rock legends. I’ve seen shows I never would have approached. I’ve sat on the Cain’s stage and talked to Billy Bragg about the social implications of traditional American music and to members of the Dandy Warhols about post-Pistols noise rock. For over 75 years, the Cain’s has offered everything to everyone, and its ghosts belong in its rafters and in the heart of every music lover who lives in or passes through Tulsa. Even if, like the Pistols, you’re just looking to cause a ruckus.

These online "clips" reproduce a self-selection of my journalism (music etc) during the last 20+ years. It's a lotta stuff, but it only scratches the surface. I do not currently possess the time or resources to digitize the whole body of work. These posts are simply a bunch of pretty great days at the office.